


Break in the Routine

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Sunday night, John's aware that his fascination with the glasses just may have become a full-blown fetish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break in the Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest community, for the prompt "John has a thing for Matt in glasses"
> 
> * * *

John shrugs out of his jacket, unstraps the rig and hangs it over the leather on the peg by the door. Keys and wallet in the crystal dish on the oak table next to the mirror. He gives himself a quick once-over in the glass, and makes a mental note to run the razor over his scalp before he heads to bed. It's a comfortable routine, even if the damn dish does always take him back to sitting alone in a shitty rental in the Bronx, surrounded by the boxes from that last, final move from L.A. and drinking bourbon straight out of the bottle.

He only has to glance at the haphazard pile of sneakers on the mat to be reminded that things are much better for him now.

John smiles at himself in the mirror before heading down the hall. He can already smell something cooking, the spicy scent filling the small house and making his stomach rumble. He turns the corner, knows he'll find Matt curled on the sofa with some technological gizmo in his hands and the timer ticking down on the end table next to him. The kid's burned enough dinners by now to know not to get immersed in one of his video games or computer doodads while the shit's on the stove. One visit from the fire department was enough.

He turns the corner into the living room, continues over to where Matt is – yes, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, head bent and one finger poking at some flat-screen gadget. "Hey," he says as he crosses the room. 

"Hey," Matt says as he glances up.

John stops in his tracks, the welcome-home kiss he was about to claim temporarily forgotten. "That's different," he says.

Matt's brow furrows, caterpillar eyebrows scrunching together as he first glances behind him, then down at the device in his lap, then back to John. John frowns, waves his hand in front of his face, and Matt's expression clears.

"Ohhh," he says, lifting a finger to poke at the thick black rims. "Yeah, I lost one of my contacts this afternoon. Pretty sure it was when I was in the kitchen making lunch. In related news, you might want to avoid the chocolate pudding in the fridge."

What John knows about contact lenses could fit in a shot glass with room to spare, but he knows it's not like the old days. Now they have one-day, one-wear, easy-in-and-out versions, because God forbid anybody wait for anything anymore. It's all about convenience these days, and while he does appreciate the invention of frozen pizza and those cheeseburgers that come in the microwave pocket, he regularly laments the loss of good old-fashioned patience. 

He waves a hand in the air again, still unable to stop staring at Matt's clunky black frames. "You couldn't just go get another pair?"

"Yeah," Matt says, "no. Different vision levels in each eye, so they have to be special ordered. I put it on rush, but in the meantime I found these bad boys in one of the boxes that we rescued from my old apartment last year. I bought them during my hipster douchebag phase."

"So, yesterday then?"

"Hah, McClane," Matt says. "Your attempt to wound me with your scintillating wit might force me to take drastic action in retaliation. Work-to-rule in the kitchen, maybe. An all-out cooking strike is a distinct possibility." Matt shudders elaborately. "Imagine having to live on only what you can produce in the kitchen for a whole week, John."

"Hey, I make a mean meatloaf," John protests.

"True," Matt concedes. "But are you going to come home and stick your arms elbow deep into raw hamburger after a long hard day catching bad guys?"

The kid's got a point. "Fine," John says.

"And?"

John rolls his eyes. "You're not a hipster douchebag," he monotones.

Mat smiles brightly. "Was that so difficult?"

John grins back, and leans in for his much-delayed kiss.

* * *

"… and that's when the pterodactyl flew in through the window and landed on my head," Matt says.

John blinks. "What?"

Matt huffs out a breath, leans back against the arm of the sofa. "Okay, did you hear anything I just said? At all?"

John frowns, mentally reviewing the last few minutes. He remembers Matt turning the flat-screen doodad his way, so he could see the various options for table rentals. Even though Christmas is still two fucking months away, the kid is already in almost full panic mode at the thought of hosting Holly and her new husband and the kids. And John had been trying hard to concentrate. But then he'd sort of gotten distracted. By those damn glasses.

He's well aware that he has a bit of a fixation on the kid's hair. Finds himself brushing it back from his face when they're sitting together, slinging his arm across Matt's shoulders and ruffling his fingers through it when they're watching one of Matt's stupid superhero movies. Thinking about it at the most inopportune moments, like when he's taking a deposition or standing in line at the bank. Tugging on it when Matt's going down on him as he watches his cock slide smoothly between Matt's lips. 

And now the glasses, with their thick chunky frames, are growing on him. They make the kid look sort of… extra hot, in a geeky librarian kind of way. John finds himself drawn to Matt's expressive eyes instead of his mop of unruly hair. Finds himself thinking about spreading Matt out on the sofa, watching those eyes blink lazily as he maps a trail down Matt's body with his tongue.

"McClane!"

John shakes his head. "Jesus. Sorry, kid."

"You know," Matt says, crossing his arms at his chest, "this is important. We have to rent tables, place settings, flatware! If you'd just let me go out and buy—"

"No point in buying expensive shit we're only going to use once in a fucking blue moon," John says, not for the first time.

"Then we have to get our orders in to the rental places and we're running out of time, so can you please, _please_ concentrate? What the hell are you thinking about, anyway?"

Bluntness always works best between them. "That I want to fuck you," John says. 

Matt raises his eyebrows before tossing the flat-screen doodad toward the coffee table. "Well, shit," he says just before he launches himself across the sofa, "why didn't you just say so?"

* * *

By Sunday night, John's aware that his fascination with the glasses just may have become a full-blown fetish. He's spent the weekend staring at Matt – when he's reading the paper, scowling over squiggles on his computer screen, shoveling pasta into his mouth while talking a mile a minute. It seems like he's unable to look away. And the sex. Jesus Christ. He hasn't been this horny since that month a year ago when he first gave in to his attraction to the damn kid.

John run a hand down the smooth skin of Matt's arm, gasps out a breath. "Stop," he says. 

Matt lifts his head from where he's been swiping his tongue lazily across John's abs, props his chin on John's chest and stills his hand on John's cock. "I want you to come," Matt says.

John's dick hardens almost painfully at the thought, but he keeps his grip on Matt's arm. "Kid, at my age a hand-job is just a wasted orgasm," John says, kind of absurdly proud that he can form a complete sentence even with Matt's fingers still wrapped warmly around his cock and Matt blinking up at him through those enticing glasses. "Want you to ride my dick." 

Matt eyes go wide even as he's fumbling for the lube amongst the rumpled covers. John's hand trails languidly down his chest as Matt prepares himself, and he's not sure if Matt's gasp is from the cool touch of the lube or his own fingers, finding and tweaking a nipple. He doesn't have much time to think about it, because a moment later Matt is lowering himself onto him. 

He watches Matt move slowly, eyes closed and mouth gaping as he adjusts to the stretch and burn. After a moment Matt's eyes open wide, wide, and John can't pull his gaze away. Matt leans back, one arm on the bed for balance and one on John's chest, finds a rhythm that makes his eyes flutter and his breath come in quick, shallow gasps. It's the only time that Matt goes silent, all his concentration focused on getting off, on getting John off. 

"That's right. Yes. There. Good boy," John murmurs, these and other things, things that fall from his lips without any conscious volition, because when Matt's moving above him, head thrown back and hair sweaty and soaked to his brow and curling around his neck and god now those damn glasses on, John can't stop talking. He grips Matt's hips and thrusts up into that welcome heat and keeps up a constant flow of words, most of which he won't even remember when they're curled together in the aftermath. 

When Matt increases his tempo, John presses his fingers harder into the tender flesh of Matt's hips and bites down on his inner cheek. He wants to make this last. 

But when Matt abruptly throws off his glasses in a Clark-Kent-like move and surges forward to kiss him, all John's reserve comes crashing down and he comes with a sudden, thundering ferocity that leaves him weak and spent, rung out like an old rag. 

He's never felt so damn good.

* * *

John slips his shoulder rig over the coat on the peg, slides his wallet and keys into the crystal dish. Glances at his weary face in the mirror before heading down the hall.

He can still smell the faint traces of tonight's dinner lingering in the still air of the house, but knows Matt won't be curled up on the sofa with a gadget and a timer counting down the minutes. On the nights that he stays at work this late, Matt eats without him, or sometimes goes out with his friends to a pub where they play board games involving elaborate monsters and argue for hours about whether Kirk or Picard was the best Enterprise captain. John went along once, and once was enough to listen to that drivel. Besides, everyone knows the correct answer is Kirk. 

His stomach rumbles at the smell of the food, and he knows that Matt will have left a covered plate for him in the fridge, all ready for the microwave. But he makes his way down to the bedroom instead, not embarrassed at all to admit that he hopes this wasn't one of Matt's gaming nights. After the day he's had, he just wants Matt's warm body, Matt's touch, even Matt's endless babble. All the comforts of home.

A little bit of tension that he didn't even realize was there slips away when he pushes open the bedroom door and finds Matt sprawled out on top of the covers in his pajama bottoms, his thumbs flying over his phone screen. He doesn't know why Matt just can't dial and talk out loud like a regular person. 

He's only taken a single step into the room when Matt looks up, smiles at him. "Hey," Matt says.

John glances from Matt's face – Matt's unadorned, non-glasses-wearing face – and then back to the tiny cell phone in his hands. "You're gonna get eye strain doing that," he says.

"Huh?" Matt says. 

John winces, not only because he just sounded like his old man finding him hiding under the covers with a flashlight and a True Crime magazine when he was ten, but also because… well… maybe he has a fetish for the damn glasses, and maybe that's part of the reason why he doesn't want Matt taking them off when he really, really should be wearing them. But the damn kid doesn't need to know that.

Thankfully Matt doesn't seem to catch either implication, because he just waves a hand at his face. "Oh, no. Yeah, contacts came in today. Only took five days, pretty impressive. I took them out when you called because I knew you'd be home soon, and I have _plans_ for you, Detective McClane," Matt says, putting on his best seductive face. The fact that his best seductive face is sort of goofy just makes it all the more appealing.

John does his best to wipe the scowl off his face and not to internally lament the loss of the glasses. "Plans, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Matt says, wiggling his brows. "But first, did you eat?" 

"Yeah, kid."

Matt frowns. "I don't mean a Baby Ruth out of the vending machine."

"I didn't have a Baby Ruth," John grouses. It was a Crispy Crunch, and it was hours ago, but he's too tired to heat something up now, too tired to even lift a fork. Possibly even too tired to fuck, despite the temptation of that lean, supple body in the bed. All he wants is to curl up with his arms around Matt and fall asleep. He's getting too old for these late-nights, reports and stake-outs, spending hours going over surveillance reports and reporting to three different Homeland morons who wouldn't know their asses from a hole in the ground. Not for the first time lately he wonders what it would be like to take that retirement package, have all the time in the world to fix up the place like he's always wanted to do. Build a deck in the backyard and have Lucy over for barbeques. Expand the tiny bathroom into a proper ensuite. Go to afternoon games at Citi Field and eat a hotdog. Be with Matt. Just be with Matt. 

John shakes his head, waves off Matt's protests about his dietary regimen. "I'm fuckin' tired, Matt," he says. "Just gonna wash up."

He pushes the bathroom door open with the flat of his hand, flips on the light and reaches for the taps. Stops with his hand halfway there.

The contacts are lying in their little case on the bathroom counter. Right there. Where anything could happen to them.

John eases back, peers through the half-open door. Matt is still lying on the bed, one arm flung over his eyes, presumably working on his next diatribe about the dangers of living on chocolate and caffeine. John presses his lips together, eyes him for a moment before moving out of sight and again glancing down at the little contact case sitting there so innocently on the counter. Reaches down and flips open the lid, stares at the flimsy contacts inside.

He looks at himself in the mirror, shakes his head. What he's thinking is wrong.

He turns on the tap, braces for the slap of cold water and then blinks at his dripping face in the mirror. 

Wrong wrong wrong.

He closes his eyes, remembers the way Matt looked the other night in bed when he flicked off those big, clunky, ridiculous, sexy glasses.

He's got his thumb poked into the contact case before his brain can overrule his dick, and barely feels the contact drop from the ball of his thumb and disappear into the toilet bowl. He reaches out to flush before he change his mind, watches the water swirl down the bowl and disappear.

He catches sight of his face in the mirror before he steps back into the bedroom and grins at himself, suddenly feeling revitalized. Yeah, he might be up for Matt's plans tonight after all.

What he just did might technically be wrong – but goddamn, it feels so, so right.


End file.
